


Happiness Does Not Wait

by MercurialHolmes



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Dark, First Kiss, First Meetings, Growing Up Together, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Magical Realism, POV Third Person, Phanfiction, Present Tense, Sad, Wizarding World, everybody is sad im sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialHolmes/pseuds/MercurialHolmes
Summary: Dan learned a lot in his first year, and one of those things was that he was the bad sort. The one that every wizard who sparkled with bravery and beautiful gamboge yellows strayed away from. He was monochrome and threatening. A snake in the grass. They were lions and cats who weeded him out because he couldn’t be anything but bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my fic folder for literally two years, so I thought it was about time I posted it!! I have no idea if/when I'll get around to writing the second half, but if you want more, please comment and leave kudos so I know!! <3
> 
> Heavily inspired by the song 'Happiness Does Not Wait" by Ólafur Arnalds, hence the title.

Dan is good kid. 

It’s always been a given- from the first day at Hogwarts to his last- nothing changed. 

He’s sorted into Slytherin on the first day, and it hit’s him like a kick in the teeth. The hat whispers, “Hmmm…. Intellegent…. you’ve got nerve as well…. oh- what’s this? Oh wow- you’re ambitious… It’s hidden though. If we don’t pull it out now- it’s never going to work properly. Better be Slytherin!” 

And sure, he’s half glad that he’s sorted there, because otherwise he’d be disowned, but Dan really thought that he might be better than them. His family, that is. 

New robes are always too big and smell too much like home on the first night. Dan is tiny for eleven, and his fringe near covers his eyes out of sheer stubbornness of change. No matter how excited he had been previously, it doesn’t matter, because Dan is leaned over his goblet of pumpkin juice at the Slytherin table and fighting tears. 

Some of the other students try to coax him out of the collar of his robe, but he shakes his head and sniffles. The few times he tries to speak- he stutters out of sudden nerves- and he hears a third year snort at him. The pumpkin juice is the prettiest marigold colour, and the taste isn’t like the sinking in his stomach. 

Then there’s Phil. 

He comes out of no where like a canon fire- fizzling and blowing a hole straight in the side of the life Dan always figured he would have at Hogwarts. 

It’s Dan’s first night and he’s crying quietly to himself, last to leave the table- struggling to find his common room on his own because he’d lagged too far behind the prefect in his own despair. He slogs along, and the castle is beautiful- it really is- but he can’t seem to look up from his over polished shoes. Yellow light flickers in the shine, and he tries to ignore his reflection in them. 

In a flash of a second, there’s a bouncing somebody at his side, and Dan’s heart stops at the warmth in his voice and the softness of his company. 

When he looks up- there’s another boy. A Hufflepuff with messy black hair and bright lively blue eyes. He looks a bit older than Dan, and seems to carry a lot more hope in his heart. 

“Don’t worry about so much right now.” He says, walking on clouds next to the little boy Dan who’s falling through them. “The first night is always the worst, it only gets better from here.” 

The older boy smiles and holds out a hand for Dan to shake, “I’m Phil. What’s your name?” 

“Dan.” It comes out clear and quiet, something true and confident in a place where those things were hard to come by. He wraps his tan fingers in Phil’s ghostly white ones, and they shake hands. 

After that, Dan doesn’t really ever let go. 

Phil leads him to his common room, chatting idly about everything and nothing, and he smiles and waves at the Slytherins who give him dirty looks when he leaves Dan at the dungeon door. 

His bed is soft, at least, and the sound of running water and churning tides send Dan off into a somewhat peaceful slumber. He thinks maybe it might be alright here. 

\---------------------------------------

Dan learns all sorts of things in his first year at Hogwarts, and not a single one of them makes him want to go home. 

He finds out that there’s a big squid in the lake, and that defense against the dark arts is his favorite subject, and that if he wants somebody to talk to- Professor McGonagall always has her office door open. 

She always hands him the tin of biscuits and gives Dan looks of sympathy- though he doesn't really understand why. They're great friends, it seems, but none the less, he wonders why she’s always so keen to talk to him about things like good and bad wizards. Even still, he doesn't stop visiting her, because shes kinder and wiser than his own mother. 

Phil is a year older than Dan, a muggle born, he learns. He likes plants and sneaking out at night, more importantly. The two of them become thick as thieves and it’s not soon before all of the staff greets them as Dan and Phil, claiming to say the names apart sounds foreign on their tongues. 

Before he departed from Kings Cross, his parents all dressed like funerals and pearls and wealth, told him in earnest to always ask blood status of others before befriending anybody. Dan had nodded, not knowing any better. Not knowing any different. 

He doesn’t listen though. Thinks it sounds a bit awkward rather than anything else. 

When older Slytherins shout things like what his parents shout at home- Dan realizes he’s all wrong. 

He’s in the wrong place, at the wrong time- and he can’t get out. 

Summers are the worst, though. 

“You can’t send me letters or anything.” Dan says sadly to Phil before they hug goodbye on the train. His owl is screeching in its cage, but that’s more than anything just the fact that it decided it loved Phil more than him. 

“Why not?” His face falls, and Dan feels worse than he did on the first night at school. It hurts to watch Phil sad, he realizes. 

“I- uh… My parents are weird about that.” He says, staring at his dirty shoes and remembering walking all the walks in Hagrid's cabbage patches that got them that filthy. “Don’t like owls around- or at least other people’s, even for delivery.” 

Dan lies, and he can feel it burning into his cheeks scarlet, and he can tell Phil doesn’t believe him. He hopes that he doesn't know the real reason, but the look on his face suggests otherwise. 

“Well… in that case, see you next year?” 

Dan swallows a confession and nods, going on tip toe to hug Phil tight. He tries to remember everything about it, because he knows that he won’t get this again for a very long time. 

When they part, Dan smiles at his own parents, lugging owl and trunk on his own, and though his mother hugs him- it’s cold and unforgiving, and he thinks that they know about Phil just by the smell on his clothes. 

They don’t, however, and go home without incident. 

\-------------------------------------------

At home- his parents argue a lot- and then pretend that they’re not whenever Dan is around. 

He has no siblings, and nobody to talk to, but he thinks that being lonely is better than being hit again for trying to make a friend that isn’t the child of a death eater- like himself. 

Dan learned a lot in his first year, and one of those things was that he was the bad sort. The one that every wizard who sparkled with bravery and beautiful gamboge yellows strayed away from. He was monochrome and threatening. A snake in the grass. They were lions and cats who weeded him out because he couldn’t be anything but bad.

\-----------------------------------------

“You know- you could have been in Gryffindor.” Phil says. 

They’re twelve and thirteen and sitting underneath an oak tree by the lake. It’s gritted with sand and dandelions in the September sun, and Dan sits on his sweater making a crown of the flowers for Phil. 

He laughs, “Yeah- and taken that home to my dad?” 

Phil goes silent, and then Dan remembers again that he is the bad sort, and Phil is that Christmas light vanilla sparkler- sort.

He knows. Dan doesn’t have to tell him where the bruises on his arms came from. 

\------------------------------------------

Thirteen and fourteen roll around in that lonely and bursting melancholic way. Everyone Dan knows whispers rumors about Sirius Black and the dark lord- and all he wants to do is black his ears and pretend there isn’t a war of morality waging inside his skull. 

He starts to have panic attacks- which isn’t good, because that means that when it happens at home now, his father will find him and hit him for being a coward. 

There’s a Ravenclaw boy Dan meets who’s a second year- PJ. They end up in the same corridor on the way to class when he sees another Slytherin named Blaise trip him. He and his gang laugh and point, and Dan clenches his fists and goes to help the boy pick up his things, apologising profusely for the rest of his house. 

Pj smiles and introduces himself, and soon they’re friends. 

Likewise- Phil finds a fourth year Gryffindor named Chris sticking olives up his nose during the Christmas feast and declares him a true visionary. 

They are dubbed ‘The Fantastic Foursome’ by their peers, and Dan realizes then that he’s not one of the bad sorts. Or at least- he doesn’t want to be. 

\------------------------------------------

When his parents talk about Harry Potter, they spit his name across the dinner table until it lands with a ‘ping’ into the bowl of steaming pudding. They tell him never to speak to him, never to speak to friends of his- those who support him. 

In the safety of their own home, they both keep dress shirt sleeves rolled up- proudly displaying their jet black crawling dark marks like badges. 

They call him Daniel- cold and simpering, and he want’s to vomit. When his mother asks about his friends, he tells them he has none. His father shares a pained look with his mother, and shakes his head. 

 

He doesn’t need to say that his son is a disappointment out loud. It doesn’t sting him like it used to. Dan knows that it’s better like that- because a thousand and one things could go wrong if he even breathes the name of any of his friends to his parents. 

Dan knows that he belongs on the good side of whatever fight is simmering in the pot of the wizarding world. Whispers are growing into hushed tones, and in the blink of an eye- they will grow to inside voices. 

He’s not ready, not in the slightest. 

\----------------------------------------------------

Fourteen is the age that Dan Howell starts to notice. 

He notices everything, from the sparkle of stars above him in astronomy to the way that people begin to part ways in the hall as if they’re afraid of him. Dan doesn’t blame. His parents are wealthy and known for being followers of he-who-must-not-be-named, and there he is, walking around with his shirt untucked with a hufflepuff for god sakes. Everybody’s favorite least favorite trust fund baby. 

It’s funny too how all of a sudden he starts noticing Phil. 

When they have herbology together (which Dan is rubbish at), Phil’s eyes light up like a carnival. He smiles wide and jabbers at Dan, elaborating on whatever Professor Sprout says. He nods along, feeling his heart go all fuzzy at the passion simply radiating so naturally off of him. When Dan drops a trowel and nearly chops his own foot off, everybody stops and stares at him for the clang of clumsiness that sort of just follows him like a dark cloud. Except for Phil. He laughs- and soon they’re doubled over together laughing over a goddamned piece of gardening equipment. 

They sneak out too. The illustrious fantastic foursome- all growing into long limbs and an unquenchable thirst for constant excitement. Pj waxes poetic about the stars whilst they sit on the hill overlooking the forbidden forest. Chris watches him, softly encouraging him to continue and biting his lip. Dan and Phil exchange a knowing glance- because it’s impossible that they won’t end up together. 

Dan knows more about space than Phil, so he points upward and describes constellations and the endless masses of black holes to him. 

“There?” He’ll ask- long freckled arm reaching for the sky. 

“No- here.” And Dan will tug gently on the sleeve of his robe. Phil smiles at him- and his heart skips a beat. 

His life had a path- and that had been wherever his parents steered him. Now their letters are even more threatening- tight and nervous- berating Dumbledore and the ministry and the disgusting mudbloods. They are less of check ups on Dan, and more written rants. They were the ones who had steered his ship, but that was before the blue eyed boy with the "dirty" blood. 

Dan wants to rest his head on Phil’s shoulder, because his world is spinning, and the only thing that’s certain is the way that he’s making Dan feel like he’ll turn on his destined path any second. 

In a world of things that make him feel so tiny, Phil is the only thing that makes him want to fight. 

\------------------------------------------

Fifteen is sickness and destruction in Dan Howells throat. Fifteen is when his father begins sending him letters about recruiting to Voldemort’s army, and fifteen is when he hides them at the bottom of his trunk- hoping that spilled ink will erase the idea. 

Fifteen is when the world becomes too much to bear- and he spends more nights than he should confiding things in Phil. He knows that knowing Dan is dangerous- knows that in the blink of an eye he could be killed by the growing omnipresent force of the Dark Lord. 

Phil doesn’t care- it seems. He always sits next to Dan at their oak tree, and never forgets to let him know when he and the others plan to sneak out to Rosmerta’s in the night. 

Dan is a lightweight. He knocks back a glass of oak matured mead, and then another, and another- and soon his head is spinning and Phil and Chris are carrying him and laughing distorted in his ears. He likes alcohol- the fuzzy feeling that rests low in his lungs and numb in his always rushing head. 

He likes alcohol- because it makes Phil hold him tight when he stumbles back down the path to the castle. 

Dan can’t sleep- either. He spends most nights walking around the castle, muttering to himself in the dark about this and that- and all of the paintings believe him crazy. He doesn’t blame them though, he believes it too. 

Phil joins him after a while- and soon neither of them sleep. Dan feels guilt pool in his stomach each time- because he has no business staying up with him until the sunrise every night. It’s exhausting, Dan can see it in his bright blue eyes every morning, but he never once stops keeping him company either. 

Plants start to go missing from Professor Sprout’s lineup- but yet, a week or so later, a tiny sprout of the same plant will show up at the greenhouse door with a bow on it. That’s Phil’s doing. He’s taken to snatching plants at night and then hiding him in the room of requirement. 

They’d found it in one of Dan’s pacing sessions in the middle of the night. 

“I just wish we had somewhere to be.” He’d sighed, “It’s so boring to look at the same walls twenty four hours a day.” 

“I think it’s nice.” Phil chirped- always the optimist, “I like how you can hear the fires with nobody around, the shadows- the… door in the wall?” 

His bouncing stride stopped short at the end of the hall they’d been walking- the wall indeed, yielding to a big wooden door. 

It was a sanctuary for them- and whenever anything was needed, the room sprouted it like the bud on a flower. Phil filled the room with all sorts of plants, and there were some lofty hammocks that Dan could rock on like swings when he got restless (which was often). It was always humid like a greenhouse- and because Phil liked the warmth- Dan soon learned to like it too. 

Fifteen is when Phil starts to hold his hand when they're alone. It’s when he looks at Dan like his skin is made from the light of a thousand galaxies rather than a black hole, and when he sneaks little notes into his robe pockets during potions. 

Fifteen is when they laugh together in the room, and when Dan wishes that there’s music to dance to- it pours from crevices hidden from their eyes. Fifteen is when they press their bodies together, shy blushing and tantalizing, swaying gently in time to the song that fills their hearts with hope. It’s when Dan spins Phil underneath his arm- and the smile on his face is as bright and yellow as the sun in the sky over the lake each day. 

Fifteen is when Phil leans forward, cupping Dan’s cheek in his trembling hand and kisses him with vigor. It’s slow and it’s sweet- but it feels like sparks igniting in the darkest parts of himself. Phil takes all of the darkness from Dan’s lips without hesitation- until he is filled to the brim with light. 

Fifteen is when they pull away and Phil keeps his eyes closed- breath shallow, until Dan feels a firework being lit in his heart. It’s when he grips the edges of his robe in his hands and pulls him back for more. 

Fifteen is when the world goes away- and all that’s left is Phil. 

\------------------------------------------

Cedric Diggory dies in a flash of bright green light at the hand of Voldemort. 

Dan says it now, because he’s not a coward- nor is he a soldier. It’s the tiniest rebellion, but it’s more than he’s ever managed before. 

Phil turns to him in the crowd after it happens, and Dan has no idea what to do. His face is turning the colour of one of the Weasley’s skiving snack boxes, and he’s falling to the bench- weak at the knees. When Dan collapses beside him, he holds Phil tight- and neither of them move. It isn’t until that night when they both break. 

Broom closets are generally horrible places to be, but Dan learns that they’re worse when filled to the tip top with grief. It’s the only place for them to hide, so they do- nestled into a corner and clutching at each others robes whilst they just cry. Phil cries quietly- tiny labored breaths and tremors as he curls farther into Dan- who is shielding him from the world with an arm that is not as strong as it appears. Dan cries like a storm in the middle of May- thundering and heavy as he tugs Phil close and hugs him- because oh god, it’s real now. 

“I don’t want to be this.” Dan chokes out- not sure where it came from- but he knows that Phil needs to hear it. That he needs to hear it. He rubs his eyes like a child, “I don’t want to be like my parents- I don’t.” 

Dan means it. The journey to now has been one that lives on a fence- and now he’s pitched himself off of it. Their atrocities hit too close to home, and home is the sixth year he’s cradling in his arms. 

This is what they do- they kill people and it hurts- it hurts everyone. 

“You’re not like them.” Phil breathes, balling his fist tighter in Dan’s tear soaked robe. “You won’t end up that way- I know it. You’re too good- Dan. Your heart is so much larger than theirs will ever be.” 

Dan leans his face into the crook of Phil’s neck as they hug each other. He knew Cedric- they’d had class together- he and Phil, and though they were never best mates- Phil loves everyone. If any one of their classmates had gone, even the ones they hated, Phil would feel like this. 

It’s a certain kind of emptiness, that fills each cavity of fragile hearts and cracks them further, like a cancer. 

That’s what Dan feels like. A product of a disease. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Summer brings about dinner parties and toasts to Voldemort that sit acrid in his mouth. Diamonds refract and sparkle in the light of chandeliers and black marble- and yet the only thing that’s truly beautiful to Dan is far far away in a little northern town he cannot hope to reach on his own. 

Protective parents make sneaky children- Dan learns. 

There is nothing left in him to regret slipping out his window at half past three in the morning, taking only his broomstick and a bag filled with clothes and fizzing whizbees (Phil’s favourite). 

He runs through the forest behind their too big, too cold estate. 

He runs until he know’s he is past the barriers protecting it from muggles eyes. 

He runs until he has the courage to mount his broom and rocket into the air, tears stinging his cheeks as he flies away from the only thing he has ever known. 

He runs away. Looking for more than what he was promised. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

Phil doesn’t ask why he’s there. It’s obvious, isn’t it? 

Dan feels his heart pound with whiskey warmed blood, as Phil hurries him inside the house without even a proper embrace. 

Phil is smart. Understanding. He knows Dan will be in trouble come dawn, and there is no hesitation in the way he grabs his wrist and pulls with urgency. 

 

His heart aches with adoration.

When they stumble into the kitchen, dark, shadows climbing the wall from the few candles atop the table- Phil clutches Dan’s shoulders and kisses him as if he is likely to slip between his fingers like smoke. 

There are no tears. They don’t shake or shiver any more. 

Dan doesn’t remember the last time he wasn’t numb to the world. From the way Phil collapses between his fingertips, it’s clear he doesn’t either. 

“I’ll keep you safe.” He whispers against Dan’s lips, chapped from the wind, kissed raw underneath a cuckoo clock that ticked unforgiving towards an uncertain tomorrow. 

“You shouldn’t…. I shouldn’t have-” Dan sucks in a shallow breath. There is no air in a room with Phil in it. He can’t find enough oxygen, doubts there’s any left on earth, and wonders how fast it will take for the atmosphere in this quaint little cottage to kill him. 

“Shut up.” 

Dan has never seen such ferocity. When he tries to step out of the other boy’s touch, he is held there. Phil’s knuckles are white.

“You could all die. I’m putting you in danger, god, Phil- I’m so sorry-” 

The clock ticks on. Dan drops his gaze to the tile and avoids Phil’s gaze. It burns into him like spilled veritaserum. He made it once. It stung when he dropped it. Sloshing out of the cauldron- he remembered it sizzled through his robes, leaving flecks of scar tissue on his hands. Phil had kissed those, after Madam Pomfrey was done, brought the burns to his lips and pressed into him- so shy, so gentle- 

“Dan, look at me.” 

And he does. Phil could always tell when he was going out of his own head like that. 

Dan can feel the bits of him that are left untouched shatter completely. Phil’s impossibly blue eyes are regarding him in such a way, he is sure it is love. It nearly brings him to his knees. 

It doesn’t need saying.

When he reaches for Dan’s sleeve, cold and calculated, he holds his breath. No air to breathe anyway. 

Phil slumps when he pulls Dan’s robe to the crook of his elbow, shaking his head, and letting out an impossibly rugged sigh. 

The skin is blank. Only the spray of summer freckles greeting Phil’s own alabaster hand. 

“If this risk is the only price to pay to ensure your arm stays like this,” He starts, locking his eyes with Dan’s again. There are tears there. Dan can’t move. Can’t think, can’t feel. There’s nothing in the entire universe except the sound of the clock over his head, and the careful press of fingers to his forearm. 

“Then it is one we are all happy to take.” 

Dan feels his face fall, a sob finally escaping his lips. Phil catches him before he falls to the floor, holding him steady as he buries his face into his shoulder. 

They stay like that for an age. Time has ceased to pass, as the clock means nothing while Dan is being put back together at the same speed as he is being taken apart. 

“What if I had it? Would you still help me?” He chokes out into the fabric of Phil’s shirt. Dan needs to know. If he doesn’t ask now, he will never stop wondering, and for all he knows- they wouldn’t be granted a future anyway. Now was all they had. 

Phil rocks him back and forth, pressing a kiss to his curling, messy hair. 

“If you did, you’d be right here in my arms, and whoever forced a dark mark onto you would be dead.” 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The Lester’s welcome him with open arms. 

Dan spends a blissful few weeks in their company, wondering the whole way through how his life could have been different if this had been his real family. Thing’s like making your own toast in the morning, and being able to run up and down the creaky wood floored hall without being shouted at. 

Things are as cozy as they could be given the circumstances. Mr. Lester still goes to work at the local muggle bank, tight lipped and pinched in the face always. It wasn’t difficult to see his old post wasn’t as interesting as it had once been. 

Mrs. Lester follows him, hand on his shoulder and enough malice in her gaze for the two of them. He’ll go downtown, and she'll go midtown to the publisher's office she pushed papers at. Neither of them really know the ins and out's of this brewing war, but they know it's bad when a terrified emaciated boy shows up in their kitchen one morning. 

Phil still smiles, and all of them try to ignore the fact that they’re hiding a fugitive now. 

Not that Dan is a fugitive in the Harry Potter sense, of course, but he doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that if any of the death eaters were to find his whereabouts, he’d be killed. Or worse, brought home safe and sound, while the Lester’s were killed. Being caught simply wasn’t an option. 

“Remember when Professor Trelawny taught us about the tea leaf fortunes?” 

Phil will say, softly, holding Dan’s hand above his head as they lay on the carpet in his bedroom. They’re close enough that if Dan turned, he’d be touching noses with Phil. The ceiling is an old and sallowed off-white, and they stare into it for hours each day until the light fades through the window. 

“What about when you turned a tortoise into a teapot, but it still had a tail at the end?” 

Another day has gone by, and Dan let’s himself giggle at the thought. Phil rocks back into his arm chair, joining him in a moment of breathless laughter. The fire roars, but it gives off no heat. 

Mrs. Lester is making stew in the kitchen. Mr. Lester writes a letter to Phil’s brother in the other room. 

They try not to laugh softly when the evenings are like this. When the house is large and warm and safe. 

All too often, they dull their joy around the edges, in case someone hears them. 

\--------------------------------------

When Phil Lester cries, the earth seems to as well. 

It’s half past nine and the house is quiet, save Phil weeping violently into Dan’s shoulder. It’s not gentle. It is a raucous and gut wrenching sound. He hiccups through his sadness with the violence of an army marching through a war zone. 

“It’s just not safe for you boys to go back to Hogwarts.” Mr. Lester had said, “At least, not together.”

Dan didn’t budge. It seemed nothing could shake him anymore, all together numb. Phil immediately tried to jump in to argue, but Mrs. Lester had cut him off with a curt, 

“Lots of families aren’t sending their children back. It won’t be suspicious if we keep you here as well, Phillip.” 

And now it rained. 

It poured and poured, thundering against antiquated window panes, all because it had all become heavy enough to make Phil Lester sob. 

Dan holds him. Rocks him back and forth and presses kisses to as much of Phil’s skin as he can get to. It isn’t much, but it’s all he can do to keep it together. They can’t both fall apart. Right? Not now.

Stop thinking. 

Right, okay. Phil. 

“Shhh, you’re going to be alright. We both are. And that’s coming from me, Phil. Me.” 

“No, no- it’s not that.” Phil chokes out, and Dan stills- tense. 

“Thing’s are going to get bad. Worse than we’ve ever seen.” He sucks in a deep breath, and Dan pulls him closer- his heart clenching, “We need to…. I need-”

“We.”, Dan murmurs.

“We need to be there.” Phil leans back to look at Dan through damp lashes. He looks beautiful, even like this. Orange lamplight dances over his parchment skin, and his eyes are filled with stars, tears spilling over cheeks like roses. He could never look away. 

“I don’t care about being alright anymore. I care about winning this. We can’t sit back, we just… we can’t-”

And Dan is undone. 

He spends hours kissing Phil through their tears because he’s right. He’s always right. 

Being alright, being happy, being alive- means nothing if it is in a world with such evil in it.  
If the only thing Dan Howell ever did in his entire life was fight against the very people that raised him, and do it at Phil’s side-- it would have been worth living. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT// Hey sorry- I realized upon rereading this that I wrote Phil as a muggle born in the first half and then a halfblood in the second?? The perils of trying to finish something you started two years ago. Anyway, I changed Mr. and Mrs. Lester's occupations to muggle ones, hopefully that should fix my goof. Sorry lads!!


End file.
